The star of a wildly-entertaining 30 for 30 documentary last year, Barnes’ promising hoops career was cut short by drugs and alcohol. Per the Providence Journal:

Barnes, 62, died at a home in Providence, according to one of his dearest friends and old Providence College teammate Kevin Stacom. Stacom said he had been in touch with Barnes’ family earlier today.

Barnes struggled with substance abuse in what was a shortened professional career and once his basketball days ended. Stacom said he saw Barnes about 10 days ago at a local restaurant and knew his friend was not feeling well. […] “He struggled with his demons but he was a great friend,” Stacom said. “He was a great talent and a great teammate but most of all he was our friend.”

Barnes was the second overall pick of the 1974 NBA draft, behind only UCLA’s Bill Walton. But Barnes eschewed the NBA for the rival American Basketball Association and the Spirits of St. Louis. Barnes dominated in the ABA, averaging double figures in scoring (24.0 ppg) and rebounding (15.6 rpg). […] Barnes moved to the NBA’s Detroit Pistons in 1976-77 and played for three other NBA teams, including 38 games with the Boston Celtics in the 1978-79 season. Barnes’ career came to a premature end in 1980 after what he would later describe as wide-spread drug use throughout his career.

In the 1974 NBA Draft, the Philadelphia 76ers selected Marvin “Bad News” Barnes second overall behind Bill Walton. Brothers Ozzie and Daniel Silna co-owned the upstart Spirits of St. Louis of the ABA, swooped in and offered the 6-8 power forward a seven-year, $2.2 million contract, unheard of for a rookie at that time. Barnes signed and earned every penny, named an ABA All-Star and Rookie of the Year in his first season, averaging 24 points and 15.6 rebounds a game. Somewhere, a Sixers fan is still waiting for him to wear the red, white and blue.

The latest ESPN 30 For 30 film, Free Spirits, directed by Daniel H. Forer, documents the two years of the Spirits existence, culminating in the ABA-NBA merger and one of the shrewdest business deals in all of sports, one that the Silna’s are still profiting from to this very day. While Jackie Moon’s Semi-Pro was a comedy, some of the Spirits gimmicks to draw attendance, league-wide fighting and anecdotes in Free Spirits are just as entertaining and outlandish.

There is no better centerpiece for a franchise, or story than Barnes, but he earned the nickname “Bad News” for a reason. Scoop Jackson referred to him in SLAM as “the first negro with an ego,” although Barnes maintains, “the first negro with an attitude.” Barnes speaks openly and extensively about his attitude and how drugs destroyed his career. There is no shortage of interviews in the 50-minute documentary from the likes of Dr. J, David Stern, the team’s first play-by-play announcer, Bob Costas and Spirits players like James “Fly” Williams, Mike D’Antoni, Billy Cunningham and Snapper Jones among others.

Barnes spoke to SLAM about Free Spirits, the different era of basketball that was the ABA and how he could’ve been one of the best power forward’s ever. At one point during the interview, he mentioned he was supposed to meet a guy in a car lot and would call right back. Ten minutes later that sinking feeling crept in, the one that Sixers fan in Philadelphia is likely feeling…as we’re both still waiting on Marvin Barnes.

SLAM: How accurate is Jackson’s “negro with an ego” statement?

Marvin Barnes: It was very accurate. When I was growing up there was a lot of racial injustice, we couldn’t live where we wanted to live, the police was treating blacks unfair. We were oppressed people, so of course I had an attitude back in the ’60s and ’70s—we were fighting for our rights. I was the type of black kid growing up, I envisioned a black President. The constitution said “all men are created equal” and I thought there was a lot of injustice going on at that time, so I guess I had an attitude.

SLAM: What were your thoughts of Free Spirits?

MB: I enjoyed it; I thought it was put together very well. The people took time to investigate and did a lot of interviews for a lot of people that were very enlightening. Everybody that had something to say was basically there, whether playing participating, or watching. I didn’t think it was unfair or inaccurate it was very entertaining.

SLAM: How prevalent was drug use among players back then?

MB: It was widespread. People got to understand that back in the days when we first started using drugs, cocaine just came out. It was the new drug, like the new drugs coming out now, like these Molly’s and ecstasy, cocaine was new. We didn’t have no medical studies, nobody knew the effects, everybody thought cocaine was the kind of drug that you could hit it and quit it. Nobody knew how addictive cocaine was back then, or all of the destruction it could cause. It was the sex, drugs and rock n’ roll era, so we would experiment. We didn’t know we was getting into, and our recreational use resulted in full-fledged addiction—all out chaos.

SLAM: Do you think your career would have been different if you went to the NBA as opposed to the ABA?

MB: I think about that a lot. What I think happened to me was that I went into a situation, to a new team, a new town, new owners, new everything and there wasn’t a lot of structure. The NBA got a lot of checks and balances in place, to weed out people going in that direction. You get suspended, you get fined, you get penalized for one, two, three drug uses. Back then, there was no penalties, you got high, you used drugs like I did, you were fine in the ABA.

SLAM: Were you the best player the game has ever seen, when you put your mind to it?

MB: When I put my mind to it, I was one of the best players the game has ever seen. When it came to the power forward, I was one of the best power forwards to ever play the game. I could run like a track star. I could jump like a high jumper. I could shoot. I could play defense. I was mean. I was vicious. I was focused. I was highly intelligent; I had a high, high, high, basketball IQ. When I stepped on the floor, nobody could play me one-on-one.

Any time I had the basketball playing for the Spirits, I never worried about the guy covering me, I was always looking where his help was coming from. I used to tell the guy who was checking me, “I’m a take three dribbles to the foul line and take a jump shot over you, see if you can stop me.” I knew I was unstoppable, I had a big ego and I took no prisoners. I knew I was good, it wasn’t that I thought I was good, I knew I was good and that went a long way.

SLAM: If drugs didn’t take you under, how good of a career do you think you could’ve had?

MB: Let me tell you something. I had the gift of gab and the personality of Magic Johnson. I had the tenacity and will to win like a Michael Jordan. I had the flair of a Dr. J. I knew I was the total package, but like they say “power corrupts.” At a young age with all that ability and all that power, what happened was I got cocky and restless. I was headstrong, I thought it would never end. I never thought that my ability would erode because of drugs, which it did. I didn’t know what drugs would do to my body, cocaine had made my bones so brittle. I remember going to my first Detroit Pistons practice and jumping to dunk the ball and breaking my leg, my bone in the bottom part of my leg just broke, because I put so much pressure on it to dunk.

If I would have had any kind of direction or stability in my life and the right guidance, I wouldn’t have been one of the 50 best players, I would’ve been one of the best 10 players in the world, period without a doubt.

SLAM: Who was the best player you ever played with?

MB: At the time when I played with the Spirits, the all around best player for his position was Freddie Lewis. Don’t forget I played with Moses Malone, Maurice Lucas, Caldwell Jones, I played with a lot of people. At that particular time, cause we were all young, the whole package as a player, I think Freddie Lewis made everybody better and that’s the mark of a true superstar.

SLAM: Who was the best player you ever faced off against?

MB: That’s a tough one. It’s between David Thompson, Dr. J and George Gervin.

SLAM: Is there anything that Free Spirits left out?

(Semi-spoiler alert: One of the better anecdotes in the film is a tale of Barnes, sleeping in and missing a team flight from New York to Norfolk, Virginia for a game. He arrives on his own, making a Barnes-like entrance no less.)

MB: They left out that I had two women with me when I did all that. I told them that when I was doing the interview, but they left it out. We had stayed together that night and we got up the next day and took a learjet. They left out that when I was running up and down the court that I was saying, “This is for you baby, I’m gonna make one for you,” to the two girls I had in the front row. I would be running down there going through my legs, behind my back and shoot a jump shot—BAM! I would run by the stands and say, “How you like that baby?” I was showing off for my women and I was showing the coach I could play.

Since his retirement from the League in 2000, John Salley has been a busy man. He’s starred on a reality show (I’m a Celebrity…Get Me out of Here!), acted in movies (Bad Boys, Bad Boys 2, Confessions of a Shopaholic) and hosted various sports programs (The Best Damn Sports Show Period and the Spider and the Henchman podcast). But throughout all of this time, and for the majority his playing days, the Brooklyn native was a health maniac, focused on treating his body properly and helping others do the same. He recently filmed a “Block Diabetes” TV Spot, and he’s currently spreading information about the disease and how to prevent it on his personal website. SLAM spoke to the former hooper about his work as a wellness expert and his thoughts on the current NBA season.

Let’s start with why we’re speaking in the first place. Tell me about the stuff you’re doing to raise diabetes awareness.

Well, when I was 12 years old, 12 or 13, I found out what diabetes was. My father had a blackout right in front of me—he fell like a log, and he was so big and I was so skinny, I couldn’t hold him. It was the scariest thing in the world. Back in the day, you know black people didn’t have diabetes, they had “sugar.” So my father had the sugar, and everybody in my family had the sugar. So I was like, Why don’t we stop eating sugar? I remember saying that as a 13-year-old kid. And we helped my father with all types of research—back then we didn’t have the Internet—and I figured out it was all through the food. So when we changed the food and changed what we ate as a family, my father’s pancreas starting working again. I [now] have a routine on how you get your body back to work, so that’s what my life focus is. [For me] diabetes is literally not close to home, but in the home. Nobody should see their parent die from not knowing that vegetables and water can save your life.

One in every three kids born after the year 2000 is going to develop diabetes, and I know it’s correlated to food. The total cost of diagnosing diabetes in America is $174 billion. So they’re doing research, when we can eradicate this by changing our diet. The diet that we have now, the pyramid—we have to get rid of that pyramid. When the pyramid has meat and milk and cheese at the beginning of it, you should realize who made that pyramid. It was developed by the people who sell meat, cheese and milk. I’m not making this up. A low fiber, low fat, plant-based diet is definitely the only way to go.

That’s how you’ve been eating for…

Nineteen years now, yeah. I’m telling you man, I have all of this information. You can resist and you can renew your pancreas, so you don’t have to have insulin intake from pills or from needles.

How has your general outlook towards treating your body properly evolved over the years? Has it been consistent?

Actually, one of my brothers was diagnosed with five cancerous tumors in his stomach in 1990, or 1989. And this naturalist put him on these microbiotics and these herbs—it was a raw vegan diet with herbs. And when I saw him again, he looked healthier, and when he went in to get checked up, he had no more tumors in his stomach. He healed himself with herbs and the food, and that was in 1990. I started in January of 1991. I changed how I live my life. At JohnSalley.com, I have a slim-down project, and I’m just putting up the directory starting on the first of the year—it’s like Zagat, but it’s for health. We’re developing an app so that we can train you through it. So if you say, ‘I wanna do this,’ I literally become your in-house trainer without being there. It’s right on your smart phone, and every hour it gives you something else to do, and lets you know what you’re going through and what you should do.

You said you started in ’91, so that was obviously during your playing days. How hard was it to keep your eating on point during the season?

What I did was, when I played, I literally found out from people where I could eat, and how to ask the chef to make something. I went down to 219 pounds, because—everyone went, ‘You look like a match that had already been burnt.’ And I said, ‘But I’m healthy.’ So obviously the weight I lost wasn’t really weight, it was toxins holding on. My body wasn’t getting rid of meat and muscle, it was getting rid of toxins.

Wow, that’s wild. I know you’ve been following the current NBA season, have any players really jumped out and impressed you thus far?

My man Kevin Love! That’s my man, I love that guy.

Yeah, he’s putting up numbers, but they can’t get any wins.

Hey, make sure you write this: There’s a dude name Bad News Barnes, played for the Detroit Pistons. They called him Bad News. The NBA never talks about him because it was during the drug era. Bad News once said, ‘I’m a bad mothafucka, but I’m playing on a bad team.’ (Laughs.) So, it ain’t him. And he’s exposing that, too. He’s putting up numbers, now people are gonna start saying, ‘Maybe he should get his teammates involved.’ Now when I hear shit like that on television, I turn the channel. Because if he scores 40, his teammates are involved. He ain’t taking the ball out, checking it to himself, dribbling it up the floor, holding it above his head, throwing it in the air, and going to post up. They’re involved, because they’re bringing it up and he’s putting it in the hole. And like George Gervin said—he shot 51 percent for his career—he said, ‘Why would I throw the ball to a guy shooting 35 percent?’ (Laughs.) So if he’s putting in the hole, he’s doing his [part]. That’s like how they were yelling at Kobe about that shit until [the Lakers front office] decided to put people around Kobe who could also do their things, while Kobe does his thing. You know, Kobe’s my favorite player in the NBA.

Well the Lakers just lost a few games, but they still have pretty much the same team intact. Is that your championship pick?

No, I got the Celtics to win the championship.

Why’s that?

Ron Artest doesn’t play well for six minutes last year, and the Celtics are the champion. Six minutes! The kid turns it on for six minutes and that changes the game. I grew up in Brooklyn, but I was a Celtics fan. I played for the Pistons, Miami, Toronto, Chicago and the Lakers. But as long as I was a fan of the game, I was always a fan of that green and white.

Growing up in Brooklyn, you were never a Knick fan?

Hell no. The best thing the Knicks ever did in my life was sign Bernard King. I became a Knicks fan when Bernard King was on the team. When Bernard King went on to Washington, I went back to being a Celtics fan. Albert King [Bernard’s brother] was the reason I knew I was gonna be a pro athlete. I remember seeing him—my brother took me when I was in eighth grade, at 14, took me up to his high school when Albert was playing against Canarsie High. And he came out and dropped 50, I think. Or 40-something. But watching this dude play, I told my brother, ‘I’m gonna be that.’ He goes, ‘What do you mean?’ I go, ‘You see how everybody is on his dick? I’m gonna do that.’ (Laughs.) He was like, ‘Alright, Johnny.’ I said, ‘Watch.’ And that’s it. That’s my life, right there.

I was talking to Anthony Mason last week and he was telling me about how he barely recognizes the NBA today, the way the game’s played compared to the way it was in the 90s. What do you think of how the game’s changed over the past two decades?

I just don’t like that every time down the court, the whistle is blown. And I don’t like the emotions that are trying to be taken away from the game. I think the powers that be need to step back a second. You gotta understand, I’m a businessman as well, so I understand the business. And the business is: If LeBron James signs a contract for $130 dollars, and he makes whatever he makes with Nike, and he’s walking around with an image and assets of over a million dollars, fucking right I don’t want you fighting! You’re paid to play basketball, and I don’t want you undercutting anybody or slamming ‘em in the back. I don’t mind you being physical, but I understand why they’re so touchy about it. There’s an old, old saying that the smarter a society gets, the softer it gets, because you don’t have to do any work—you’re doing all mental work. We’re becoming a softer society. Everything is inappropriate.

And it’s a trip, because it’s not just the League. Sports usually definte what the society is. I mean, look how terrible it is to watch a game live at a stadium. Come on man, the fucking Garden used to be dark. The only lights were on the court. The Forum, I thought I was on Broadway. I was ready to start tap dancing when I first got there. The place was sexy. We didn’t have cheerleaders, except for the Laker Girls. I’m not saying I dislike cheerleaders; I love cheerleaders. But it wasn’t a complete show at halftime. There’s no organ anymore. It don’t smell like elephants when you walk in the Garden anymore. It’s just that shit that used to let you know you were going to see a show in the Garden. Everybody’s part of the show—they want everything interactive. Look at football now: They’re throwing red flags and saying: ‘I wanna challenge that.’ You know how many fuckin’ championships I would’ve won if we had a red flag? And that’s the society. Point, point, go to the videotape. We got you from every different angle like we did on CSI. We saw it right there. And—is that mothafucka wearing earrings under his helmet? What?! Come on. ‘Yeah man, old boy lost his earrings during the game. That’s five G’s, 10 karats.’ Fuck you wearing earrings for, punk ass?

I saw basketball players walking with security guards. I said, ‘OK, this is ridiculous.’

Yeah. Who would mess with them, anyway?

It used to be, guys gave you a pass. You were respected, because you were a hero. Now, these guys gotta walk around and watch their ass. I’m like, for what? I used to walk around—I could walk in the middle of a drug joint, and people would be like, ‘Yo, that’s Sal. Yo, you don’t need to be here.’ It’s a whole different respect.

Last question: Are you gonna be in Bad Boys 3?

(Laughs.) If there is one, God willing.

Yeah, you gotta get in there.

I don’t even know if there’s gonna be a Bad Boys 3. Will [Smith] and Martin [Lawrence], they have too much money now.

]]>http://www.slamonline.com/nba/mighty-healthy/feed/4SLAMonlineOriginal Old School: The Year of Living Dangerouslyhttp://www.slamonline.com/the-magazine/old-school-2/original-old-school-the-year-of-living-dangerously/
http://www.slamonline.com/the-magazine/old-school-2/original-old-school-the-year-of-living-dangerously/#commentsSat, 19 Dec 2009 14:30:37 +0000http://www.slamonline.com/online/?p=56208

SLAM 36: No one captured the insanity and brilliance of the ABA better than Marvin “Bad News” Barnes.

He was known as “Bad News Barnes,” and throughout the 1970′s, Marvin Barnes lived up to his nickname. The kid from Rhode Island was a viciously talented offensive machine, for one year, while playing in the ABA. Unfortunately, drugs, among a laundry list of shortcomings, derailed what could have been a brilliant career. Recently, Barnes has spoken with AOL Fanhouse about his involvement with drugs during his playing days. In 2007 he was arrested on cocaine charges, but says he’s been sober ever since. Barnes now talks to youth about avoiding drugs and staying out of trouble. It’s been a long road for a man who Scoop, who he profiled back in September 1999, referred to as, “the original negro with an ego.”–Matt Lawyue

by Scoop Jackson

For one year of Marvin Barnes life it could be said that the 6-9, 220-pound forward was the best basketball player in the world. For one year it could be argued that there was no one better in either the NBA or ABA. For one year there was no denying that Marvin Barnes, and everything that came with him, was worth it. For one year.

That year was ’74. The Carolina Cougars of the American Basketball Association had just been sold to a collection of New York business types, transferred to St. Louis and renamed the Spirits. Before the ink dried on the sale, an All-American out of Providence College was already signed to a seven-year, $2.1 million rookie deal.

Marvin Barnes, who had left Providence after leading the nation in rebounding at 18.8 per game (he also averaged 22 points), was also the second overall pick in the NBA draft, selected by the Philadelphia 76ers. But he immediately made his choice clear: “I made the ABA my preference over the NBA,” he told the UPI wire service, “because of its dedication in getting the best of all the college players.” That and the presence of one Julius Erving. “I want to pattern myself after Dr. J. I’m one of his biggest fans. Man, isn’t it something the way he flies through the air and sinks those shots.”

This is where it all began. The legend known as Marvin Barnes came into pro basketball as the “beyond keepin’ it real” version of Muhammad Ali. Poppin’ shit, takin’ names, trippin’, serving opponents like a restaurateur. For Marvin Barnes, basketball was a necessity. He was expensive. And basketball paid his bills. Something was going to enable him to earn his worth, and at the expense of the game itself, Marvin Barnes was about getting paid—and everything that came along with it.

“I don’t want him around!” the coach screamed. “I don’t want him in uniform. This is a job and the way we make our living…But you’ve got to abide by the rules. And if you have to depend on Barnes for your livelihood, you have a problem.” Those were the words of Dave Cowens, reported by the AP in ’78. Cowens, then player-coach for the Boston Celtics, had the luxury of working with Marvin Barnes for less than one year. By the time Barnes got to Boston, he had already worn out his welcome at two other NBA teams, the Detroit Pistons and the Milwaukee Bucks.

In a series of misadventures-everything from missed practices to charges of pimping to assault convictions to possession of marijuana charges to being jailed for carrying a unloaded pistol in an airport-Marvin Barnes did his thing royally. The very definition of ghetto fabulousness. He became famous for saying that he would “work in a factory” rather than play for less than a million dollars (his moms set the price at $3 million), and then going out and blowing his original $100,000 signing bonus in less than five months. According to folklore/legend, Barnes purchased a $15,000 Cadillac, which his girlfriend wrecked; Marvin got the news during the warm-ups of his first exhibition game as a pro, against the San Antonio Spurs. He was “bummed out” by the news, according to Martzke, scoring only six points. He then traded it in for an upgrade on a $35,000 Rolls-Royce.

The true definition of Marvin Barnes came on October 31, 1974 in San Diego. Costas, in Loose Balls: “After the game, I saw [Marvin] in the dressing room and he started giving me his state of the Spirits speech. He told me, ‘Bro, you know what’s wrong with this team? We don’t have any team play. We don’t care about each other…Let me give you an example. Tonight, I had 48 points with two minutes to go. Did anybody pass me the ball so I could get 50? Huh? No, they just kept the ball to themselves and I got stuck on 48.’”

He was the original negro with an ego, “that sort of negro” as Barnes used to say. He was that negro America was not ready for. The kind of brotha that would honestly and openly admit, “I want all I can get,” and score 35 and grab 15 whenever the hell he wanted, while at the same time disregarding every rule set out for the concept of building a team.

Marvin Barnes’s pro career lasted about eight years. He finished on a 10-day contract with the San Diego Clippers in ’81 after playing in Trieste, Italy for a minute. His dreams of being the next Dr. J. only held true for one season—his first, when, if not for the drama, he might have been able to add an MVP trophy to his Rookie-of-the-Year hardware. In retrospect, it may have been the most twisted yet phenomenal season of any professional player ever. It was the year that a 22-year-old kid from North Kingston, RI, shook up the world.

November 20, ’74. Seventeen games into his rookie season—after he had already served notice with a 48-point, 30-rebound game—and Marvin Barnes was ghost. As Woodrow Paige for the Rocky Mountain News wrote: “Marvin Barnes is a free spirit. In fact, the Spirits of St. Louis center is so free, no one knows where he is.” Claiming to be a “penniless millionaire,” Barnes, on the advice of teammate Joe Caldwell, left the Spirits’ organization to fire his agent (Bob Woolf) and hire a new one (Marshall Boyer). Barnes discovered that he had been “hoodwinked” on his contract and, following a suggestion, refused to play ball until his money was straightened out. (According to Harry Weltman, then president of the Spirits, the $2.1 million for seven years was actually to be paid over 14 years, meaning Barnes was only getting $150,000 per year.) Barnes stayed with Boyer apparently for a total of six days before he switched again, hiring Walt Frazier’s and Billy Cunningham’s agent, Irwin Weiner to handle his business. He returned to the squad one week later.

With the money situation under some type of control, Barnes seemed to be working on getting himself under control also. His return to the courts was nothing short of prodigal. Although the Spirits’ continued to lose (despite their nice line-up of Maurice Lucas, Freddie Lewis, Steve Jones, Gus Gerard and Fly Williams coming off the bench), “BNB” put on clinics.

“Once,” Jones remembers in Loose Balls, a book chronicling the misadventures of the ABA. “[Barnes] spent the entire pre-game lay-up drill in full uniform, sitting in the stands, talking to this girl. MacKinnon ripped into Marvin for that and didn’t start him. Then he brought Marvin off the bench and Marvin went for 40 points and 20-some rebounds.

“[Marvin] thought he was Superman, and for a while he was.” On April 9, ’75, in Game 2 of the first-round of the playoffs, on the night Marvin received the Rookie-of-the-Year award over Bobby Jones and a 20-year-old high school refugee named Moses Malone, he had to face his idol, Erving. In straight Greek mythillogical (sic) fashion, after scoring 41 in the first game (a loss), Marvin dropped a 37-point, 17-rebound night on Erving, while defensively holding Doc (with the help of Gerard) to only six points. The Spirits beat the defending ABA champion Nets 115-97. It was one of those nights that people’s grandkids would hear about for years to come. Of the 10,621 that attended that game, all got a glimpse of Barnes true ability.

If anything, that game and that series put Marvin Barnes on the map.

At 22, he was fifth in the ABA in scoring (24.1) and third in rebounding (15.6), and he knew he had to take his career in a different direction. “I may have been a little disoriented in the beginning of the year,” he said. “I have to adopt a professional attitude. I’ve realized that I’m not just playing for myself anymore, I’m playing for my teammates, my coach, my mother, the fans, and all the people who believe in me.” Those were the right words, the right idea. Unfortunately, this would be where Barnes’ career ended and his life took over.

“I’m a basketball player, not a monk.” Marvin once said, “I play the women, I play the clothes, I play the cars, I play everything I can. There’s players and there’s playees. The playees are the ones that get played on by the players. I’m a player.

“They keep telling me, ‘You can’t make any more mistakes. Don’t miss any more practices. Don’t miss any more planes. Be on time, Marvin. Drink your milk, Marvin.’ Man, I’m 22, and a 22-year-old kid ain’t no genius. I’m tired of being ‘the franchise.’” By the beginning of his second year the ABA wanted BNB to conform. Sell out to some extent. “It’s a situation of going from boyhood to manhood,” Weltman said in the Rocky Mountain News. “And the adjustment has been extremely difficult for Marvin.” The NBA was looking at a buy-out of the league or a merger, and the ABA had to clean up its image for the NBA’s corporate structure. Despite his talent, Barnes’ tactics and actions had become too much for the white owners and coaches who ran the League, and for the Black ballplayers he played with—although most of them understood him.

Barnes’s problems didn’t start in the pros. On October 10th, ’72, while still a member of the Providence Friars, Marvin Barnes attacked teammate Larry Ketviritis with a tire iron. Charges were filed, and Barnes was in and out of court for close to five years. Although Barnes claimed self-defense, he eventually pleaded guilty to assault with a dangerous weapon.

In ’73 he received a suspended one-year jail term for the incident, with a three-year probation tag hinging on his every move. Then on May 16, ’77, almost to the day when his probation was about to be lifted, he was arrested in Metropolitan Airport in Detroit for carrying a handgun. The leagues had merged by then, and Marvin was playing for the Detroit Pistons, averaging around 10 ppg and seven rpg while trying to adjust to the NBA style of play and coaching. He served five months in prison during the off-season; the Pistons traded him one month into the next season.

“After the gun incident in Detroit, Marvin was never the same,” Martzke says over the phone. “It was like he was trying very hard to do the right thing for a while, and then that happened and it shattered him.” The downward spiral continued in January of ’81, when Barnes was arrested for eluding police and marijuana possession, and again in August of the same year on procuring for prostitution, a.k.a. pimping. The latter charge was later dropped by his accuser, who said she had fabricated the whole story. According to Barnes, who at the time was trying out for the New Jersey Nets, told the UPI, bad news had turned into bad luck. “I go to camp, I try to do good and then they arrest me.” Sometimes a brotha just can’t win.

His nickname to the world was Bad News Barnes. It’s the type of moniker that seems humorous at the time, but then comes the responsibility to live up to it. In Elevating The Game, author Nelson George describes Barnes like this: “Marvin Barnes entered the ABA in 1974, establishing himself as one of basketball’s great talents and one of its most obstinate head cases…[W]ith his appetite for one-upmanship and self-destruction, [he] epitomized some of the worst aspects of the Black urban ethos.”

In truth, Marvin Barnes was not as bad as the news that was printed about him. But in doing research for this story, I was hard-pressed to find any news clippings or stories that focused on what he did on the court. No one wrote about how in ’78 before signing a near-$1 million, three-year contract with the Celtics, Barnes requested they remove the “guarantee” from his contract, since he “didn’t deserve it based on my last two seasons in the NBA.” He elaborated: “Last year I didn’t deserve the money. I was overpaid. I want to earn my money. I’d rather be remembered as a guy who succeeds than one who got something for nothing.” Instead, everything on Barnes reads like a police record. In the eyes of many in America, Marvin Barnes was a criminal; in reality all he was was the original baller, the first true big willie of professional basketball, the 70’s version of Jack Johnson.

For one year Barnes was the torchbearer of whatever Julius Erving was going to leave on the floor, then he grew to became Erving’s antithesis.

Another story: Someone told Marvin that he was going to play against this cat named Caldwell Jones in one particular game. Defensively, the 6-11 Jones was supposed to be something special, someone who could stop Marvin. Barnes took the challenge personally and blazed Jones for 51 points and 30 rebounds in a game that is still talked about among old ABA diehards.

That one ABA year was Marvin Barnes’s legacy.

“On the court he could guard any power forward, most small forwards and most guys who were playing center in the ABA,” NBA Senior VP of basketball Operations Rod Thorn said in Loose Balls. “He could score inside, outside—the whole package. He could do everything but pass. I never saw any passing skills from him.” But BNB proving he could pass is like Roy Jones, Jr. proving he can take a punch: unnecessary.

Barnes simply shook up the structure, upset the set-up, had fun (rumors float around that Barnes once had 13-14 phones in a three-bedroom apartment), got paid, spent more than he made, got his “head messed up” by several agents and—when he wanted to—outplayed every single player in the American Basketball Association. For one year.

“He came to us with a reputation of being a loose cannon,” says Martzke, finalizing Barnes’s story. “But for one brief period he was a very reliable player. He bailed out on the team once, missed a couple of practices, a flight or two, but for one year—on the court—he was great. No one was better.”